


Your Ghost

by quandong_crumble



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abuse of Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comic Book Science, Established Relationship, Extremis (comics version), Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Run-On Sentences, Sentence Fragments FTW, this is what happens when you are hungover and listening to Greg Laswell covers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony’s dead, but for some reason the world keeps turning. Steve has to push past his grief and continue on. Thank goodness his team is there for him, because he’s got a funeral to help organise and a doombot invasion to thwart. And funny things keep happening in Avengers Tower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Second Day

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Saral_Hylor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor), who also writes in this fandom.
> 
> I will be posting one chapter per day barring any reason I can't get to my computer. Chapters are divided by days and vary in length. Chapter 1 is definitely the shortest.

_You have reached the voicemail of Tony Stark. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you some time this decade. If it’s an urgent message, leave it urgently._

I terminate the call before your voicemail starts recording. You don’t need another two minutes of silence on your message bank, broken only by my breathing. I press redial and hold the phone up to my ear again.

_You have reached the voicemail of Tony Stark._

Your voice is so alive, just a little amused and sarcastic. You were smirking at me while you recorded this, as though actually having a personal greeting on your voicemail was beneath you. As though you were humouring me. 

_Leave a message and I’ll get back to you some time this decade._

Your voice is so alive. You recorded this manually, actually speaking into your fancy little smartphone, not using Extremis to simply upload what you wanted to say. Your voice is 100% human, 100% _you_ , the only electronic distortion coming from the phone itself, not the Iron Man helmet, not from using Extremis to pipe your thoughts directly into my communication.

_If it’s an urgent message, leave it urgently._

It’s been two days since you died.

Without you, the tower is too quiet, too dark. There are too many spaces where you should be, echoes of your presence in your favourite chair. In the workshop; I can’t bring myself to enter it without you. In the dent from your body in the bed I can’t sleep in.

I hang up the phone before it starts recording again.

I drift through the common floor, to the kitchen where your espresso machine stands silent. JARVIS brings the lights on to 30% automatically, but says nothing. He hasn’t said anything for two days except in response to a direct, unavoidable question. It’s like when you died, some of JARVIS died too.

The kitchen shouldn’t be empty at three in the morning. Bruce should be here quietly sipping tea on the nights when the memories won’t let him sleep. Natasha should be sneaking a spoonful of chocolate ice cream from the freezer, quietly smiling at me while I pretend to ignore the nightmare-sweat sticking her pyjamas to her back. Clint should be dozing on top of the counter, sitting cross-legged between the stovetop and the toaster, his wallet open in his hand with his thumb resting against Phil’s face in the photo. Thor should be leaning against the deep sink, Mjölnir cradled in long fingers, staring out the window at the city-blind night sky, pretending he can see the stars.

You should be here, coffee in hand and your hip cocked against the island bench, while you take a short break from creating impossible things in your workshop. Or hunched over a glass of single malt, your breathing still rapid and shaky and your eyes too far away.

I can’t sleep, knowing you’re no longer here. When I close my eyes all I can see is your broken body, suit twisted in ways you can’t bend, spears of iron, rebar crusted with concrete and blood, through your belly, your chest. Blood bubbling from your lips when I pulled your faceplate away. The light disappearing too quickly from your eyes.

I hear your last words every time there’s silence. The crackle and buzz through my communicator, the faintly flat electronic tone from Extremis because you couldn’t get enough breath to speak aloud. Because you were drowning in your lungs.

_I love you, Steve._

I dial your number again, because I can’t stand to hear the echo of that voice in my mind.

_You have reached the voicemail of Tony Stark. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you some time this decade. If it’s an urgent message, leave it urgently._


	2. Third Day

It’s been three days since you died.

I still can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see your glassy stare. I ask JARVIS to show me security footage of you, battle footage, media footage, anything to see you moving, see that spark of life. Anything except your bloodstained skin and dying eyes. He silently complies. 

I watch you announce that you are Iron Man. I watch you spin in an aerial ballet, Hammer drones falling all around you. I watch you in your workshop, hips twitching from side to side in a little unselfconscious dance as you bob your head in time with the music. I watch you leap off the couch, arms raised in victory, and shake your finger in Clint’s face when you win a silly bet over a video game. I watch you waltz Natasha around the gym as the two of you demonstrate with the confidence and sure footing of the well practiced and well trained. I watch your face light up with a silly grin you can’t control when Natasha positions me in your arms and the two of you guide me through the basic steps of the dance.

I watch us hold hands in front of the press for the first time, your smile smug, mine nervous, as we saunter up the red carpet. I watch us kiss on the landing pad after returning from a mission. I watch us make love.

I fall asleep on the couch, the tablet clutched to my chest, the headphones still in my ears. I fall asleep to the sound of your quiet laughter.

I wake after only two hours with your terrified, choked-off scream in my ears.

The air sounds empty, all the sound sucked out of it by your voice even though it shrills only in my mind.

Every television is blank, every stereo silent. We are the ghosts in the tower now, you and I. I’ve caught only glimpses of the others; the blur of Bruce’s pale face in the corner of my eye, the shuffle of Clint’s feet in the vents above, but they haven’t spoken to me. Maybe they don’t have anything to say.

I wander the common floor again, drift from empty room to empty room. I can’t bring myself to go up to your – our – penthouse again, not since the first day. The Iron Man suits still stand there; I can feel their silent sentinel glares of reproach through the floors. I can’t be in the same room as them and feel them judge me for your death.

Natasha and Bruce find me in the kitchen, hands hovering over the back of your chair. Natasha takes my hands and steers me around to face her. She doesn’t push when I look over the top of her head instead of at her, not like you would, and I’m grateful for it. Instead, she just squeezes my hands gently.

Bruce puts something on the table in front of my usual chair. A bowl of soup, a plate of sandwiches. Natasha presses me to sit, and Bruce hands me a spoon. They don’t speak, just take quarter of a sandwich each and sit in their chairs; their chewing does little to fill the oppressive silence.

The soup is tomato, which you hate, and somehow that makes it okay for me to eat it, like it doesn’t matter that you can’t because you never would. I eat mechanically and taste nothing, each scrape of the spoon too loud, not loud enough.

“Somebody say _something_ ,” I yell. My voice cracks on the last syllable.

For a moment it is so utterly silent that all I can hear is a buzzing in my ears. Bruce jumps and drops the last crust of his sandwich. Natasha simply raises an eyebrow at me, her hands clasped demurely and unthreateningly before her.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I’m not sure who I’m apologising to, them or you? “I just … I.”

You always called Natasha and Clint the ninja twins, but it’s Thor who sneaks up on me. Thor’s strong, warm arms that wrap around my shoulders and pull me sideways into him. One hand presses against my cheek, turning my face into the soft wool of his shirt. It’s awkward and backwards and he doesn’t smell like you but I cling to his arms like a lifeline and the unshed tears burn my eyes, my throat. He rocks me gently, murmuring soft nonsense.

I whisper your name into Thor’s chest, the tears threatening to finally spill. Soft hands begin stroking my hair and rubbing the back of my neck, Natasha joining Thor. All of a sudden I can’t breathe, and I begin clawing at Thor’s arms. I can’t be here, can’t be wrapped in their warm arms while you lie cold and alone on the coroner’s table. I can’t cry for you with them to comfort me.

I feel the cold prick of a needle in my arm and the blackness claims me.

The last things I see are your eyes, glassy with death.


	3. Fifth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I didn't realise until I split this work up into chapters that this is truly a monster of a chapter. Sorry about the major size differences, one day I'll be able to write chapters that are of a consistent size.

_Steve!_

I wake with the echo of your voice in my ears, urgent and frightened and whispering my name. I turn my face back into the pillow and pull the covers up over my head. You are still here behind my eyelids. In my dreams I don’t have to face a world without you. I seek oblivion.

When I surface again, it is to a warm hand on my bare arm, gently shaking me awake. It takes my brain too long to recognise that it’s Clint’s hand, that the callouses are different to yours. My breath catches in my throat and I try not to hate him for not being you.

“Easy, Cap, you’re in my room in the tower,” he says, removing his hand as soon as I look at him. “Bruce gave you some pretty powerful sedatives. You’ve been asleep for almost thirty-six hours.”

I can’t believe it. It’s been five days since you died. I brace myself for the all-consuming pain of your absence, but instead I’m hit with the far more mundane pain of my roaring stomach. And the guilt that I’ve managed to sleep through the fourth day, that I’ve managed to sleep at all.

Clint’s smile is too wide and sharp, brittle around the edges. He’s not as good at the fake smiles as you are. _Were_.

“Breakfast first, or do you want to hit the gym? I could use a decent sparring session.”

I know what he’s really saying. He’s trying to drag me back into life, back into daily routine. Part of me knows it’s a good idea. We’re superheroes, we can’t rely on Doom or HYDRA or any other villains to behave themselves just to give us time to mourn you. And that doesn’t even cover the larger threats. You were always convinced that the Chitauri would return; that one measly nuke wouldn’t stop them. Should I be glad that you’re never going to see it?

There’s a tiny selfish little part of me that doesn’t want to be ready. We couldn’t protect you, why should we even try to protect the earth? It’s only a tiny part, though, and I push it deep down inside. Because, as much as I want to, I can’t be that selfish. For your sake, as much as anyone else’s. You wouldn’t have given up if our roles were reversed.

I climb out of bed and try to offer Clint a smile. I think it just looks more like a grimace.

“Protein shake and then gym,” I tell him. “Breakfast can wait.”

Someone has gathered a change of clothes for me and folded them neatly on a chair. I’m almost disappointed not to have an excuse to go to our room, but I think they’re right. I’m not quite ready yet.

Clint hands me a drink when I emerge into his little kitchenette dressed in sweats and ready for a token attempt at exercise. It’s chemical chocolate flavoured, chalky and disgusting, and I’m so grateful that it isn’t one of your weird raw food smoothies. That it isn’t green or fresh. I choke it down and chase it with a glass of water, any more and I’ll be puking not long after I work up a decent sweat.

The gym is a sanctuary this early in the morning. There are memories of sparring with you, of correcting your stance while you boxed at the heavy bag, of watching Natasha show you slick and dirty moves that took advantage of your opponent’s greater size, then laughing when you used them on me. They dance at the edge of my mind but not as strongly as if I’d come here in the afternoon. In our time. But the morning was my time alone. Now, the gym is quiet but not empty. Bruce and Natasha are meditating in one corner, knees almost touching in their identical lotus poses.

Clint grabs my arm before I can head for the treadmills.

“Take it slow today, Cap,” he says. “I know you want to work out until you burn out, believe me, but you’ve spent a few days doing nothing and you haven’t eaten enough to go at your usual speed.”

His tone is bland, almost disinterested, and God it’s so much easier to listen to than sympathy. Pity.

“What’s say we run for twenty minutes, then spar for half an hour?” He couches it as a question, but I can tell by the tension in his shoulders, the sudden stiffness in Bruce’s spine across the room, that I don’t have any other choice.

Who did this for Clint after Phil died? Who pushed him back into the land of the living, piece by piece? I don’t remember him falling apart like I have, but I do have a vague memory of Natasha and Clint being joined at the hip for the first few months. I hope it was easier for him.

I hate myself for wishing it would be easier for me.

Twenty minutes is barely enough to break a sweat and work out the kinks of too long sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. Thirty minutes of sparring with Clint is an exercise in frustration; he dodges, ducks and weaves almost as effectively as Natasha, and I don’t land a single satisfying punch, I’m that far off my game. I know I would be more upset if he were going easy on me.

The frustration fuels me through my cool down stretches, through a scalding shower, and most of the way through a breakfast of sausages, eggs, tomatoes and toast. It’s not the food that pulls me up short, you rarely ate breakfast after all, but the arrival of possibly the last person I want to see right now.

Pepper Potts.

Her heels announce her presence; sharp staccato clicks against the floor. JARVIS doesn’t make a sound, though he is thoroughly in the habit of announcing visitors before the elevator opens. Was. Before you died.

Pepper wears her suit and makeup like armour, but I can see her new frailty; the bright red of her eyes, and the sharpness of her cheekbones in her gaunt face. She’s taking your death hard. She sits opposite me and gently places a folder on the table, then offers her best attempt at a shaky, watery smile. She’s better at fake smiles than Clint is, but not as good as you. Thor appears in the doorway behind her, and I focus my attention on him instead. He is dressed warmly, in Asgardian fashion, but not armoured. Not a battle then. He speaks briefly to Bruce, in a voice too low for me to hear, and leaves. 

Natasha’s touch, light and unthreatening on my shoulder, brings me back. I don’t make eye contact with Pepper, staring briefly instead at her nose before dropping my gaze to the folder under her hands. In the edge of my vision, I see Bruce move around the table to sit halfway between Pepper and me.

“I know you don’t want to even think of this right now,” she begins.

I hold my hand up to interrupt. In as steady a voice as I can manage, I say, “How about people stop presuming what I do and don’t want? I’ve lost my lover, not my free will.”

It’s perfectly even and perfectly snarky. God, I wish you could hear me. Natasha gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, and I feel the brush of Clint’s fingers across my back. I hear Pepper’s sharp, indrawn breath and feel a little bad. I don’t really mind all the help, but the longer they treat me like an invalid the more tempting it is to rely on them entirely.

“Sorry,” I say. I scrub my hand over my face and through my hair; try to scrub away the impulse to be cruel, to lash out at your closest and dearest friend. I’d say that I don’t know what’s come over me, but I do. It was the same when Bucky died. When I woke up and realised I’d lost Howard and Jim and Dum Dum and the rest of the Commandos. When I realised I’d lost Peggy without really having her to start with.

None of that compares with the pain of losing you. You’re not just a hole in my chest; you’re a hole in my everything. I am a hollow shell. 

“It’s alright, Steve,” Pepper says gently. “Let’s start again. I need to talk to you about Tony’s funeral.”

Her voice breaks on the last word and she sucks in a long, steadying breath. I don’t. I can’t breathe; the air is all gone from the room. I know, intellectually, that she really wouldn’t have come here to talk about anything else, but the word still hits me like a sucker punch. Your funeral. Natasha’s hand squeezes my shoulder firmly again, five points of near-pain for me to focus on. To ground me. I gasp for air, suck in a huge, sobbing breath.

“There will media, of course,” she continues with a stronger voice, thankfully ignoring my gasp. “But we’ll get to hold what’s ostensibly a private funeral. Director Fury has S.H.I.E.L.D. organising a public memorial service, which we’ll be requested to speak at. Agent Johnson has assured me that it’s entirely up to each person, but she has asked that we prepare something in writing that can be read out if you choose not to take the podium.”

I notice that Bruce has quietly scooted his chair closer to Pepper. He reaches a hand to her, which she grabs in a white-knuckled grip. She’s barely managing to stay composed.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. don’t intend to release Tony’s—” her voice breaks in a sob, and she bites her lip before continuing, “—Tony’s body until they’ve finished studying Extremis.”

“No,” I say calmly.

“Steve,” Bruce begins.

“NO!” I shout, standing so abruptly that my chair clatters to the floor. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me that S.H.I.E.L.D. would have your body. I don’t want to think of you on a table deep in their labs, but all I can see is you, pale and lifeless, with their scalpels digging into your flesh. I owe you more than this. We all do.

“He is not their experiment. He gave enough in life, Tony doesn’t have to profit S.H.I.E.L.D. in death too.” 

“Steve—” Bruce interrupts again, louder.

“No, Bruce,” I make sure to catch his eyes in a level glare. “He wouldn’t let them keep us.”

Bruce nods. Natasha’s hand finds my shoulder again, warm and reassuring, not restraining. I hear a clatter behind me and realise Clint has picked up the fallen chair. 

Pepper meets my eyes and nods once. “Good.”

“JARVIS,” I say, still unable to break my habit of looking at the ceiling when I talk to your AI. “Can you connect us to Director Fury at S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

There’s no answer, not even the slight electronic fuzz that indicates the speaker is live and he’s connecting us anyway.

“JARVIS?”

“He hasn’t responded since yesterday,” Clint says. “He’ll do lights and the elevator, and that’s about it. I can’t even get his help with doors; I have to enter my code manually every time. I think he’s…” he pauses and swallows audibly. “How about I get your phone?”

“No, I’ll handle it,” Natasha announces quietly. “I can go straight to Fury, bypass all the bureaucratic bullshit. It’s better I go in person.”

Bruce pushes himself slowly upright. “I’ll go too.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Natasha asks.

Bruce gives us a little twisted smile. “I’ve got a lid on it, Natasha. They don’t need to know that, though.”

I drop back into my seat and rest my head on the table for a moment. Natasha pats my shoulder one last time, and then pads out of the kitchen on silent feet. Bruce follows, pausing to give Pepper a reassuring smile and hand squeeze. 

Pepper shuffles the papers in front of her again. I’ve never seen her so nervous. With you, she is, was, always so still and calm. Deep water to your rapids. You would flutter around her in constant motion, grabbing and discarding tools, never standing still for more than a few moments, and she would still have you caffeinated, briefed and tidied before you left the workshop without looking like she had even moved. Now, though, I see you in the flutter of her hands. In the way she chews at the corner of her lip. In the fine hairs starting to pull free of her ponytail, sticking to the slight dampness at her temples.

It is easy, easier than I think it will be, to stand up again. To walk around the table and take her hands in mine. To draw her up from her chair and cradle her fragile form in a gentle hug.

She sags into me, wrapping her arms around my waist with more strength than I gave her credit for. She presses her face into my chest and I feel her shoulders shake. I can do this for her, for you. Give her the comfort that we both need. I drop my chin to the top of her head and tighten my grip around her, and finally I can let the tears just fall.

I don’t know how long we stand like that, swaying gently against each other, but eventually she pulls back and wipes her eyes, leaving faint stripes of eyeliner on her cheeks. I take a shaky breath and wipe the tears from my own face. Clint is no longer in the kitchen, but the breakfast dishes have disappeared and two steaming mugs are settled on the table next to Pepper’s paperwork. I’ll have to find a way to thank him when this is all over, but at the moment all I can think and feel is you.

Pepper sits again, dragging one mug closer to cup it under her chin and bathe her face in the steam. 

“Sit,” she says. “We really need to talk about this.”

I slide into the seat next to her, Thor’s usual seat, and lift the other mug. Peppermint steam curls up against my face, hot and prickling, and a take a large gulp. It doesn’t quite burn my tongue, but it feels like it sticks halfway down my throat, radiating warmth through my chest.

“Does he— did he have—” my voice is quiet and sounds half strangled. “Is there a family plot here in New York?”

Pepper gives me an unreadable look. When she speaks again her voice is gentle. “Tony wanted to be cremated. Rhodey is going to scatter his ashes off the coast near the Malibu house.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. How did I not know this? How had you never told me? Did we really think we were going to live forever, were we that arrogant that we never thought that we should discuss this, not once in twelve months? How had I never asked you?

“I didn’t know,” I say.

Pepper takes the mug of herbal tea away from me and grips both my hands tightly. It seems now that we’ve started touching we can’t stop taking that small comfort from each other. She gives my hands another reassuring squeeze and waits until I meet her eyes again.

“Tony doesn’t, _didn’t_ , discuss these things easily. Rhodey and I only dragged it all out of him after the palladium-poisoning incident. I think after… after Afghanistan he couldn’t cope with the idea of being buried. He got very drunk after Phil’s funeral and – God, he made me promise not to tell but I think you earned the right to know this – he had a bit of a panic attack about it actually. Kept saying he’d spent enough time in a hole in the ground. He tried to brush over it in the morning, but you know how he is when he drinks.”

“I know. He hasn’t been drunk for a long time, though.”

It’s hard to think about you in past tense. You died, but you’re still here. In Pepper’s tears. In Clint’s competent compassion. In the soft touch of Natasha’s hand, in Bruce’s carefully considered meals, all foods you won’t eat. In the hug Thor gave me that dragged me a short way back into the world. In JARVIS’ silence.

I release Pepper’s hands and take another long swallow of the cooling tea. She copies me, the tension leaking out of her shoulders a little at the warmth.

“So,” I begin again. “Cremation. Ashes. What else?”

“I can handle most of the organisation for the private funeral. Agent Johnson and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s public relations team are liaising with the city on the public memorial service. Everything will go ahead on Monday.”

“Monday? That only gives us tomorrow to organise.”

Pepper’s mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile. “I’ve already organised most of it in accordance with Tony’s wishes, and what Agent Johnson has relayed from S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She takes another slow sip of tea. I think she’s giving herself time to gather her thoughts. It gives me time to consider her words, how they twist inside me; the thought of being left out of these final decisions about your life. I hope you wouldn’t have wanted that, but knowing you, you’d be glad I’m being spared the lion’s share of the funeral planning.

“I wanted to include you earlier, Steve, but Bruce told me to give you time. I know Tony was yours, but he was mine for a long time too. You can trust me to do this right.”

The shriek of her phone ringing spares me from answering. She digs it out of her monster of a handbag and touches her thumb to the screen, silencing it.

“Sorry,” she puts the phone down next to her paperwork. “I have a selection of readings and poetry here that we can consider for the funeral. Tony wouldn’t want anything too religious, but he’d also want you to choose something special to you.” 

I scan through the lines of neatly typed poetry, quotes and readings from different religions, passages from the Bible. Nothing suits you, all too pompous, too dry. Fake sentiment written for people who mean nothing.

Pepper’s phone shrieks again, rattling against the table. She checks the display, and then presses her finger against it, silencing it again.

“Do you have any photographs you want used?” she asks. 

I think immediately of the team photograph I have set as the background on my tablet. Darcy bullied us into a rough line straight after a ridiculous mission battling gelatinous cubes in Central Park about eight months ago, and we were in such high spirits that it took four tries to get a decent photograph. Bruce, Clint and you were trading lines about critical hits and dice rolls, and you dropped into a ridiculous pose with your arms outstretched just before the camera clicked.

“I’ll email it to you,” I tell her.

Pepper’s phone begins buzzing again, vibrating instead of ringing this time. She checks the screen, hovering her thumb over the cancel button, and then reconsiders.

“Keep looking through these,” she says, getting out of her seat. “I should take this. It’s head of security, they’ll keep calling.”

I look at the page, but there are just more empty words. Hollow black lines on white paper that have no meaning. Most of my attention is on Pepper as she steps through the kitchen doorway and out into the big living room. She pauses just outside the doorway, still well within my hearing.

“Pepper Potts… What sort of security breach? … Are you sure they delivered it? … What about security footage? … Look, talk to Reception again and see if they’re sure they signed the delivery in… No, I’m not telling you how to do your job; I’m just offering suggestions. What else did you call me for? … Yes, you do that.”

She stalks back into the room, eyes focused and determined and for one short moment she’s every inch Pepper Potts, acting CEO of Stark Industries. Then she slumps back into her chair and tucks her phone back into her handbag.

“Sorry about that, Steve. There’s been a bit of a security snafu. A shipment meant for Workshop Four disappeared somehow between the delivery bay and the workshop itself. The same thing happened two days ago with two shipments for one of the computer research labs. I think everybody’s just a little bit off their game, with what’s happened.”

With your death.

“What went missing?” I ask, more because I want to avoid talking about your funeral than because I’m interested.

“Two days ago it was computer parts: microchips, processors, that sort of thing. This time it was a shipment of metals intended for a new satellite. Nothing we can’t replace reasonably easily. I’m more concerned about the lack of security footage. Since JARVIS has stopped responding, we can’t easily pull any footage his systems have captured. We’re left with the secondary systems, and there a few disturbing holes in the records there.”

“Should I be concerned about the security of the Tower?”

Pepper shakes her head. “No, I think this is internal. After the funeral I’ll get security to begin a proper investigation. The last time this happened it was just a misunderstanding – we had two labs place similar orders, and one lab collected both.”

We lapse back into silence, broken only by the dry rustle of papers as I shuffle through the poetry. 

* * *

_Steve, come on. You’ve got to wake up. Steve!_

I wake with your voice in my head for the second time today, your tone no more than a frantic whisper. I’ve been napping on the couch in the media room, wrung out from the meeting with Pepper. I’m unused to sleeping in the day; I come awake panicked, but also drowsy and nauseated. I’m alone, the room dim.

It takes me too long to realise that the three televisions are on, casting ghostly shadows across the room. They all show different pictures, different overhead views of a sterile white room, filled with screens, stainless steel benches, glass beakers, tubing and copper pipe. And in the middle of each shot, a giant green rage monster hell bent on destroying it all.

I’m halfway down the hall to the elevator before my brain catches up with my eyes.

“JARVIS?” I’m hopeful, after all he directed the security footage to the televisions where I would see it. But there’s only silence.

“Thor! Clint! Avengers Assemble, lab 36-B,” I shout as loud as I can, hoping at least one of our teammates is on the same floor. I’m sprinting by the time I reach the elevator, and I manage to skid to a halt without smashing into the door, reaching out to jab at the button as soon as I’m steady.

Why don’t I have my phone? Why don’t I have my communicator?

Right this very moment; I miss JARVIS almost as much as I miss you. 

The elevator doors open after a short delay, and I try to count the seconds, to calculate how far the elevator might have travelled in that time. Where it might have started. God, I wish you were here to spit out the answer to me in half the time it takes me to even think about how to work out the answer. I slide into the elevator before the doors finish opening and jab the button for the gym. Not because I’ve figured out the equation – adrenaline has jumbled the numbers in my head – but because I know people.

If Natasha’s back from speaking to Fury she’ll be working off the frustration against one of your funny wooden sparring dummies. The one that Thor didn’t accidentally-on-purpose destroy after it hit him on the point of the elbow.

I can hear the rattle and smack of flesh on wood the moment the elevator doors open. I don’t leave the car, just yell at her to get Clint and meet me at Bruce’s lab, even as I’m leaning on the button to take me there. The sudden silence, then the slap of her feet on padded vinyl tells me that she heard.

The doors of the elevator shut quicker than normal, and the car plummets towards Bruce’s lab. I guess JARVIS is still watching, still has some control, even if it seems that he’s mostly offline. The halt jars up through my ankles and the doors rush open to reveal that the lift hasn’t quite reached the floor. I duck out and take the short step down as the doors begin to clatter shut again, as quickly as their pneumatics allow. Maybe it’s a good sign, maybe JARVIS is trying to reassert control over the Tower, but there’s a hollow of anxiety in my gut because it’s just so clunky and uncoordinated. And JARVIS has never been anything but smooth.

The door to Bruce’s lab is spider-webbed with cracks. I ease it open and sidle into the room, not trying to be quiet but trying very, very hard not to make any sudden movements. I wish I’d brought my shield. 

“Hey, Hulk,” I say in the most normal, even tone I can manage. This isn’t easy; normally it’s you who deals with the unexpected Hulk-outs, just striding into the room like you haven’t a care in the world. Hadn’t. Was. God it’s hard to have to keep reminding myself.

Hulk turns, swiping some complicated looking apparatus off the bench to shatter on the floor. His eyes narrow at me, appraising, not so angry that he’ll rush me straight away. I take a few steps further into the room, glass crunching under my feet. Silence reigns for a few minutes as we simply size each other up. I’m not sure how to begin. 

“What’s up, big guy?” I try to match your easy, teasing cadence. “Having some trouble with the lab equipment?”

“Where’s Tin Man?” 

Oh God, I don’t want to answer that. The sudden lump in my throat strangles the words, making my voice rough. “Tony’s dead, Hulk. He’s not going to be around here any more.”

Hulk frowns. “Know that. Where is Tin Man?”

“He’s dead,” I repeat. “That means he’s gone, buddy. He’s…” My voice trails off. Are you in Heaven? I’d like to think you are; I’m pretty sure that even notorious playboys with a laundry list of sins get a free shot when they make the sacrifice play.

“Geez, Hulk. You’ve really rearranged this place. What, was the _feng shui_  all wrong?”

I didn’t hear the elevator, I don’t think there’s even been enough time for Natasha to find him, but Clint is very suddenly in the doorway behind me. I glance back and see Natasha bracing the elevator door open, keeping a close eye on the Hulk. She’s still uneasy around him outside of battle.

Hulk makes a distressed sound, almost a moan, and sweeps another bench clean. Monitors clatter to the floor and go instantly dark. He sits quickly, more like collapsing on the floor, and thumps his head against the now-clear bench. Clint steps around me, gliding his feet to sweep broken glass out of the way as he walks because the soles of his shoes are too thin to protect against the bigger shards. He crouches in front of the Hulk and puts his hand on one huge green knee.

“It’s okay to be angry, big guy. We all are. But Banner’s going to need his lab, so you’ve gotta stop smashing it up, okay?”

The big guy glares at Clint, and gives the bench he’s leaning on a final, petulant shove. “Okay, Cupid.”

Clint makes a quick hand motion behind his back, signalling us to go. I withdraw from the lab, keeping my eyes on the pair just in case, but it seems like Hulk has calmed down. Hopefully Clint will get him out of the lab and away from all the broken glass before he transforms back into Bruce. Natasha grabs my arm as I reach the elevator and drags me into the car. She leaves the doors open, leaning against the wall, and I mirror the action. We can’t see the two in the lab, but we’ll be able to hear them if anything goes badly in there.

“How’d you know?” she asks.

“I think JARVIS is getting better,” I say. “I woke up from a nap and the footage from the lab was playing on every screen in the room. And then the elevator was acting funny, too. Travelling quicker than normal, stopping hard, it even stopped short of this floor.”

“It felt almost like falling on the trip down. JARVIS may be more damaged than we thought. I wish…”

When she trails off, I stop just looking at her and start to really _see_  her. Her face is gaunt with weariness, blue shadows bruised under her eyes. She looks haggard, like she hasn’t slept at all in the past five days. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own misery that I haven’t really thought too much about everyone else. First Pepper, then Bruce, and now Natasha. It hits me each time that they’ve lost you too. Besides Clint, you are – were – probably the closest to her on the team. We all saw it, how every particularly witty wisecrack you made brought a smile to her face, how the two of you would sit quietly on the terrace with matching glasses of vodka when you couldn’t sleep.

“How are you coping, Tasha?”

The look she gives me is far too sympathetic. “It hurts, but it always does. It might even hurt more than normal this time. I’ve let you all get too close. I let Tony get way to close.”

She swallows hard and gives me a tragic smile. “It’s funny. I met him when he was waiting to die, and I was ready for it then. I wasn’t ready for it now.”

“He liked you too, you know,” I tell her.

She snorts, a soft huff. “He understood me, as well as you all do. But yes, Steve, I do miss him.”

I hold out an arm in invitation, and she crosses the elevator car in quick steps to curl under it against my side. I give her a squeeze and try not to wonder if this is how it will be now.

Empty spaces and missing you and taking comfort in the touch of each other?


	4. Sixth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much shorter chapter this time. I guess some days are full, some give you time to breathe.

I slept in Natasha’s bed last night, curled around her back, slotted like spoons tucked neatly into the cutlery drawer. Her warmth, her scent, her compact-tidy-curled way of sleeping; it was a comfort because it couldn’t be more different from sleeping with you. I woke at two thirty with your screams in my ears and your eyes dull and glassy in front of mine, and she was there, murmuring gentle nonsense in Russian with her mouth against my chest. Rubbing long lines up and down my back until your screams were drowned out and your dull eyes replaced with the red stare of the alarm clock.

I wake again with the orange-grey light of a city dawn painting dull rectangles on the floor. She is gone, but the hiss of the shower tells me where, and there is a pile of my clothing, neatly folded on the corner of the bed, waiting. I want nothing more than to curl back up in the bed, pull the blankets over my head and pretend that everything’s going to be okay. So I get up, dress and knock on the bathroom door to tell Natasha where I’m going. I help myself to three of her weird supposed-to-be-strawberry-flavoured protein energy bars and a bottle of water from her fridge, and do my warm-up stretches in the elevator on the way to the garage.

It’s been six days since you died. I have to start pushing myself out into the world again. Not moving on, just moving, filling myself up with energy, endorphins, muscle fatigue.

Anything to fill the empty hole of you not being here.

The run clears my head, blowing away the cobwebs of six days spent in the Tower. I push myself for the last five miles, looking forward to getting back to the heavy bag in the gym. As the Tower comes into view I see a bright streak in the sky, heading straight for the landing pad above the terrace.

I am at a full sprint before my rational mind takes over and reminds me that it can’t be you. You’re cold on a slab in the S.H.I.E.L.D. morgue, not flying bright and brilliant through the sky to the tower. But my heart double-times it as I make out the dark figure hitting the landing pad with the disassembly unit, and I keep up the pace because this horrible little spark of hope bites deep in my chest and makes breathing hard. This irrational hope that I’ll find you up there in your living room, sipping something expensive and potent, dictating suit improvements to JARVIS.

I’m outright panting when I hit the elevator, leaning against the call button while I catch my breath. It has to be a hallucination, there has to be a single perfect explanation for why I just saw Iron Man land on your landing pad. There’s a buzz and crackle from the speaker when I press the button for the penthouse, and the car begins to rise smoothly. Is it my imagination, or is it travelling a little slower than usual?

“JARVIS?” I try, not really hoping for much.

There’s a pop and hiss from the speaker in response, and the light dims briefly.

“We’ll get you working again soon, JARVIS,” I promise.

The lights dim and brighten again, either in response or just coincidence. I stroke the wall panel, feeling a little silly for trying to reassure your AI. Can a machine feel reassurance? Can a machine fear? 

Although I asked for our suite, the elevator stops and opens at the big living room. I press the button again, but the doors remain stubbornly open. The speaker hisses and pops again, and then I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Two voices, Natasha’s husky alto speaking over the richer tones of Agent Johnson, both tense but not raised. 

Johnson stalks out of the kitchen, her boot heels clicking on the tile then thudding dully in the plush carpet. 

“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” she greets me, all cool professionalism. She’s only been our handler for a month, still hiding herself behind that stoic mask. She’s a good agent, but a difficult woman to warm to. She steps into the elevator with me and gives me a pointed look. Rather than suffer a silent ride back to the garage, I enter the living room. The elevator doors close with a soft thump.

Natasha pokes her head out of the kitchen and beckons to me. “Steve, come in here. Colonel Rhodes just arrived.”

Rhodes. Of course. The armour I saw landing wasn’t you, wasn’t a hallucination. It was War Machine. That stupid little spark of hope fades, leaving a pit of cold in my chest. Your oldest friend is leaning against the counter, cradling one of Natasha’s absurdly dainty teacups in two hands. He gives me a tired but genuine smile and sets the cup on the counter with exaggerated care before crossing the room and giving me a quick, one-armed hug.

“I’m so sorry about Tony,” he says in an impressively steady voice.

I smile my reply; that little cold spot in the middle of my chest making me doubt my ability to speak. Natasha brushes my arm as she glides past me to the table where the delicate porcelain tea set is artfully arranged. She pours me a cup of something rose-coloured and pungent and hands it to me.

“I’ll tell Bruce and Clint that the Colonel is here,” she says before leaving us alone in the kitchen. She’s the only one who doesn’t call Rhodey by his name; even Bruce began calling him Jim after a conflict with Ross when War Machine was attached to the Avengers.

I lean against the counter next to Rhodey and take a sip of my tea, enjoying the steam in my face as much as the floral flavour. The warmth defrosts that cold spot enough for me to try speaking.

“How was your journey?”

Rhodey waggles his hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “I only came from DC, so it wasn’t too far. There were a few air pockets to play with, though.”

I remember the moment of terror when you hit an air pocket while we were flying together, the momentary feeling of stomach-churning weightlessness when we dropped for a moment. Your delighted yell just before you stabilised. I am convinced that flying brings out the maniac in you. Brought. I should have guessed that Rhodey would be the same.

“How are you holding up?” Rhodey asks.

I echo his waggled hand motion. “Some days are better than others, but I’m at least up and about now.”

“Pepper said you took it hard.” He grimaces down at his tea, nodding, and then empties the cup carefully into the sink. “Do you have anything stronger than this flowery shit?”

“Beer or liquor?” I try to remember if Clint has any of those fancy microbrews still in the fridge.

“Beer’s good.”

I grab two tall brown bottles out of the fridge; I might as well join him. I’ve noticed during his visits that he never drinks alone. I grab sandwich fixings as well, and the absurdity of having beer with what is effectively breakfast lightens my mood just a little bit.

“How are you coping?” I ask him.

Rhodey takes a long swallow of beer before he replies. “I don’t know," he finally admits. "I almost can’t believe it, you know? He almost died so many times that I just expect him to get back up and keep going. To wander through the door with his stupid grin and just carry on like normal. I don’t think it will feel final until the funeral.”

My mind shies away from the thoughts of tomorrow. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

* * *

By five o’clock we have migrated into the living room, sprawled around the couches and on the floor. Thor has returned, bearing Jane, Darcy, and as much fast food as he can carry after a phone call from Clint. Pizza boxes and Chinese containers cover the coffee table and are scattered around the room. Pepper carefully adds another empty liquor bottle to the line on the bar. Between the private funeral in the morning and the public memorial after, we won’t really have time for a wake tomorrow.

I’m cradling an almost-empty bottle of gin and sitting in your usual spot, rather than let anyone else take it. Your ghost is here in the room with us, in the cold stripe up my back, in Clint’s sarcasm, Tasha’s almost-smiles, Bruce’s glassy eyes. Most of all, though, you’re here in Rhodey’s stories, Pepper’s fond glances at the team, and the burn of strong alcohol down my throat.

“Oh, I dragged his skinny ass out of a gutter more times than I can count through college,” Rhodey continues. “He was so brilliant academically, but he was still such a goddamn teenager, and a lonely one at that.”

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” Pepper agrees. “He was bad enough in his late twenties, when I first met him.”

The speaker overhead lets out a rude noise, making everyone except Natasha, Bruce and I jump.

“What was that?” Darcy asks, waving her empty glass in the direction of the speaker. Clint steadies it with one hand when it comes in range, and fills it with something clear and oily looking. 

“Yeah, did JARVIS just blow us a raspberry?” Clint adds. “Because, what the hell?”

I tell them about the speaker noises that have followed me off and on all day, beginning in the elevator this morning.

“I kept getting pops and hisses in my lab too,” Bruce says. “Just occasionally, usually when one of my experiments was nearly done. And a whole heap of buzzing just before Tasha came to let me know that you’d arrived, Jim.”

“Far as I figure, JARVIS is trying to take control of the house again,” I say. “We should get him fixed as soon as we can.”

Pepper’s smile wobbles a little bit at the edges. “Between JARVIS and the bots, at least we’ll have a little bit of Tony left.”

I haven’t thought about the bots, your children really, since you died. I promise I will check on them later, but right now the company of our family, of your ghost, intoxicates me more than the gin in my hand. In the silence that drags, my limbs are leaden with it.

“And the bar,” Clint adds. “There’s more than a little bit of Tony in the bar still.”

It shouldn’t be funny, not even with the way he salutes the bar with a long bottle of clear liquor before taking a swig, but suddenly we are all laughing. It’s a cracked, broken sound, sharp at the ends, but it’s laughter.


	5. Seventh Day

The day of your funeral dawns bright and warm. It should be raining; the whole world should be mourning you with me. Instead, sleepy pigeons wait patiently outside of cafés, and songbirds greet me while I run through the park. I push myself as hard as I can; I need the burn and scream of my muscles to match the pain centred in my heart.

It’s only been seven days since you died.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to you when we crowd into the funeral home, flanking the shiny, personality-free coffin that S.H.I.E.L.D. deliver you in. I’m not ready to say goodbye when Pepper breaks into sobs during the eulogy, and nearly breaks my hand with her tight grip. Nor when Thor recites a traditional Asgardian farewell to a fellow warrior. I don’t know how I get through my short speech, the tight squeeze around my heart almost blocking the words, bottling them in my chest. When I sit down again Natasha slides a comforting arm under mine and rests the side of her face against my shoulder. She slips a folded tissue discretely into my hand.

She hands me another when Rhodey’s voice breaks badly on, “‘I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.’ And you were, Tony.” 

The pain swells up in my chest with each word, each breath, each hiss of the air-conditioning counting down the moments before you are truly gone. 

We weren’t going to stay for the committal but it feels wrong to leave you here alone, to step outside into that brilliant sunshine and early summer warmth. I press my hand to the lid of the coffin, right above your heart, and pretend I can feel the heat of you through the lacquered wood. Slowly the others, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, co-workers and old friends dear enough to be present at the funeral filter away, until all that are left are Fury, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey and the Avengers. Your family. Johnson stands just outside the door, awkwardly aware that she doesn’t fit in this machine, a spare part, but she needs to travel with us to the public memorial service. 

The burn and squeeze in my chest reaches a crescendo when the funeral director lays a gentle hand on my arm and tells me that it’s time. In the periphery of my awareness I can feel more than see Pepper, Rhodey and Bruce ushering everyone aside, leaving us alone for your final journey. Twenty-eight steps. Twenty-eight slow, painful steps with my hand pressed hard against the cool lacquered wood and the illusion of your heartbeat thrumming against my palm. Twenty-eight footfalls muffled by hard-wearing industrial carpet, the silent funeral director and his two assistants pushing your coffin along at the exact pace I’m setting.

I never want those twenty-eight steps to end. 

I can barely breathe through the clench of pain when the director hands me the single yellow rose tied with a red ribbon that Pepper put on your coffin before the service. I stroke the wood of the casket above where your heart would be one last time, and let them take you. As the brightness claims you the pain disappears, a spreading numbness like the grip of an icy fist replacing it. Numbness I can handle. Numbness, I can breathe through and speak around. Only my hand that I pressed to your casket is warm, burning with your phantom touch. 

My fingers itch for my phone, to call your number and hear your voice once more. Because, worse than your screaming, in my head you are silent.

Thor is waiting for me when I retreat those same twenty-eight steps, standing where I stood while everyone said their good-byes. His heavy hand on my shoulder grounds me, anchors me, keeps the numbness from spilling out. I never thought I would be so thankful for the cold. It stays with me, soothing and perfect, while we make the slow trip in the sun-warmed car to the mansion.

The headquarters of the Maria Stark foundation was the most practical location for the memorial, I will admit, but the tiny little not-numb part of me is sad that the first time I get to see your childhood home is to say a public farewell. The ballroom is full of press, politicians, people you knew, people who thought they knew you. People who didn’t rate the intimacy of your funeral but still need a chance to farewell their business rival, their celebrity, their colleague. Their hero. 

The Avengers close ranks, keeping Pepper and I in the centre. She reaches for my numb hand; I feel the distant pressure of her supposed-to-be-reassuring squeeze but not the warmth. I tuck the hand that still thrums with the ghost of your pulse into my pocket, protecting it. Rhodey moves to cover that side, tilting his face towards my ear so that I can hear him over the noise of the crowd. I struggle to focus on his words.

“You don’t need to do this, man,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard. “You can head home if you want, we can cover the memorial.” 

It’s tempting, I’ll admit, to head for home. The numbness isn’t going to last, I can feel the curl of heat licking slowly up my wrist. I don’t want to thaw, not just yet. I want to be back in our suite, curled up in the bed that hasn’t been slept in since before you died. The sheets will still smell like you, like expensive cologne and engine oil and welding smoke. I want to call your voicemail and let your cheerful voice defrost me bit by bit. I want to cry for you, only for you, not for an audience.

I compress my lips in a mockery of a smile and shake my head. I can stay frozen long enough to do this.

Sitting wedged between Pepper, who still has my hand in a death-grip, and Bruce, I watch Fury take the stage in front of a massive screen showing photos of you from all different periods of your life. His words penetrate the numbness only slightly. It’s a good speech, though grandiose and obviously scripted by S.H.I.E.L.D.’s public relations department, but honest. You’d laugh at the thought, but he says good things about _you_ , not just about Iron Man.

I don’t hear all the speeches; I’m too busy trying to focus equally on staying numb and your phantom heartbeat in my hand. I miss Pepper getting up to speak; one moment she’s beside me, and the next she’s speaking into the microphone onstage, tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Clint is in her seat beside me, offering a solid presence, some insulation against the rest of the world.

He nudges me to go up when Pepper finishes talking.

There are camera flashes despite Agent Johnson’s request that people not take photos. I stand straight and tall behind the microphone, years of practice from all the USO shows I did so very long before you were born finally paying off, and hold your ghost in my fist. 

“I’m going to ask your forgiveness in advance, because I know I’m not going to get through this speech without a few tears. So please bear with me.” I’m surprised at how steady my voice is. I’m quiet but authoritative; Captain Rogers, not Captain America. 

“Today we mourn the death of Iron Man. Of Anthony Edward Stark. But I want to talk to you about Tony, the man inside the suit. The man behind the company image. The man I would find in his workshop at three in the morning, up to his elbows in the engine of his newest car. The man who needed two cups of coffee to wake up in the morning, if he even slept the previous night.

“Tony was without a doubt one of the kindest and most generous men I have ever known. He opened his tower to the rest of the Avengers without a second thought. He gave us a home, and in turn we became a family. 

“He wasn’t good with open emotion, but we always knew he cared. Not a week went by when Tony didn’t make something new for at least one of us. Better shielding for our suits. A faster quiver mechanism for Hawkeye. Indestructible stretchy pants for the Hulk.”

There’s a titter through the crowd.

“But more than that, he saw what we needed in our personal lives and tried to make it happen. I don’t know if I could have adjusted to the 21st century so quickly without Tony guiding me through the new digital world. And he knew when it was getting too much, too, and we’d hit Central Park, art galleries and museums, and do the tourist things that he pretended to hate.

“So, that’s the man I’m mourning today. Not the head of a major company that revolutionised green energy. Not the superhero who flew a nuclear bomb through a hole in reality to save this city, with no regard for his own life. You knew him that way; you can mourn him for that. No, I’m mourning the crazy inventor who didn’t sleep enough, didn’t eat enough, and drank far too much coffee. The man who kept the kitchen stocked with pop tarts for Thor, fancy organic yoghurt for Bruce, and Coca Cola made with real sugar for me. The man who built us apartments and made us a home. The man I loved very much, my warm beacon of light in this crazy new world. Goodbye, Tony. I will love you forever.”

Despite my claims, the numbness keeps the sobs away while I talk, but not for much longer. I hurry from the stage, defrosting, the warmth curling further up my arm. Clint meets me at the foot of the stairs, meets my eyes manages to convey both concern and question with the quirk of an eyebrow and the slight lift of one side of his mouth.

I nod, and Clint makes a quick hand signal. I notice that Natasha has moved to sit next to Pepper. Her nod to Clint is barely perceptible. He leads the way down the side of the room, weaving around film crews and media representatives. Halfway to the exit one of the reporters breaks decorum, acrylic nails like talons on the inside of my elbow even through my suit jacket and shirt. 

“Captain America,” she begins, voice too loud and drawing the gaze of everyone in earshot. I tug my arm away and try to find my voice again. Before I can, Johnson is there, steering the reporter away with her own vice-like grip, an impressively bland smile on her face. I make my escape, catching up to Clint and following him out of the double-doors. 

I don’t stop running until I’m waiting for the elevator to take me up to our rooms.

It’s strangely not odd being in our suite on my own. I crawl into our bed still in my suit, bothering only to shuck my jacket, belt and shoes. Your pillow smells like you. I cling to it and bury my face in the dip left by your head and pretend that you’re only down in your workshop creating impossible things. I’m thawed, the last traces of beautiful numbness draining away from my heart and leaving nothing but empty echoing pain.

My phone vibrates with silent urgency.

“Cap, just making sure you got back okay,” Clint says when I answer. “Do you need someone to come home?”

“No, I’d rather be alone.”

He makes a little noise of confirmation. “We’ll see you at dinner. No arguments, Captain. Eight o’clock.” 

The ‘we need to make sure you don’t go back to being a zombie’ goes unsaid.

I grip the phone long after it goes silent, staring at the dark screen for a long time before I wake it up again and dial your number. I need to hear your voice, at least one more time.

_I’m sorry, the number you have dialled has been disconnected or is no longer in service._

I can no longer feel your heartbeat in the palm of my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the most difficult to write, especially as I haven't attended many funerals. Steve's speech, on the other hand, was churned out in under two minutes very early in the piece.


	6. Eighth Day

Doctor Doom’s robot attack is almost a relief. It drags us out of the tower, doesn’t give me a chance to just curl up in our bed for twenty-four hours and miss you, feel you in the acute ache in my chest. Instead my chest burns with exertion as I sling the shield through the air, arcing it through one of the robots on its return. I snatch it out of the air just in time to block a blow from another of the nuisance robots. The docks are crawling with them.

“Thor, give me an overview.” I snap into the comm. We’re spread too thin on the docks and I’ve become separated from Hulk and Natasha.

“They are evenly spread, Captain,” Thor reports. “They do not appear to be concentrating their force on any particular area, just on spreading mayhem and destruction.”

“Hawkeye, how’s the perimeter?” I manage to bash the persistent flying bot into a wall hard enough to send sparks flying.

“The perimeter’s going to shit, Cap. I need backup here ASAP; they’re starting to spread through the warehouses and the little flying suckers aren’t scared of my explosive arrows.”

“Thor, back Hawkeye up. Hawkeye, try to get to the highest point in the area and provide aerial reconnaissance. I need you trying to turn back those robots at least until S.H.I.E.L.D. can get enough agents here to establish a true perimeter.” I dodge a blast that looks electrical and duck behind a shipping container. “Widow, report. And does anyone have eyes on Hulk?”

“Hulk and I are at about the middle of the docks,” Natasha’s voice is breathless but not pained. “We’ve got drones coming in thick and fast, aerial units as well as ground-based. They don’t seem to be aiming to kill, though. I’m not having much trouble taking them down.”

A sliding kick takes out the legs of one of the humanoid machines. I bury a fist in the exposed wires at the back of its ‘neck’ and yank, sending sparks flying. I roll to my feet and run, taking another electrical burst on my shield. A scything swing of the shield takes care of the perpetrator and I’m free, the area full of sparking metal corpses. No time for a breather, I head for what’s supposed to be the perimeter.

“Shit, Cap, I don’t have eyes on anybody at the moment, and these little flying suckers do not want me to get a good vantage point.” Clint yells.

“Thor?” I angle my direction towards the tallest crane; it’s swarming with specks of light.

There’s a grunt of frustration through the comm. “I am guarding a warehouse full of civilians. We are all safe, but the metal fiends have broken down the door and if I leave these people will be unsafe.”

I need someone in the sky. I need you.

My steps falter as I’m hit with the intense realisation that I’m struggling to factor the loss of you into my battle strategy. I need to stop thinking that I can rely on air support; Thor is too easily grounded when we need him as a heavy hitter. I wish Rhodes hadn’t had to leave immediately after the funeral; if he were still here instead of on his way to the Middle East he would be a serious asset.

“Captain, backup is _en route_ , ETA seven minutes,” Johnson’s clipped voice is welcome in my ear.

“You heard the agent,” I say to the team. “Thor, stay where you are until backup arrives, then focus on evacuating the civilians. Hawkeye, stop trying for the high ground for now and focus on the perimeter. Widow, I need you and Hulk to fall back to Hawkeye’s position. We need to keep this contained to the docks until we have backup. Agent Johnson, we need eyes in the sky here.” 

“ETA two minutes,” she answers immediately.

“Ooh, who’d you get?” I hear Clint ask. “Is it the Human Torch? I love that guy.”

Nobody bothers answering. 

I round a stack of shipping crates and only just bring the shield up in time, wedging it between my face and the hovering robot. I push it off, throwing the broken bot into another one behind it, and then slice the edge of the shield into the face of the third. 

“Cap, on your six!”

The call comes into my ear with a burst of scratchy static, electronically distorted and barely a voice at all. I bring the shield back and up, spinning, and catch a powerful electrical bolt just in time. The force blows me backwards over the downed bots, but I tuck and roll and bring the shield up again for protection. My free hand closes around the severed arm of one of the downed machines. The flying robot advances, coming in too low and too close. I surge to my feet, leading with my shield, and then bring the metal in my other hand up under the edge. The robot goes down with clang, speared perfectly through the middle.

“Thanks for that, Hawkeye. Check your comm, you’re breaking up.”

Hawkeye’s response is loud and clear. “Thanks for what, Cap? I don’t have eyes on you.”

It can’t have been him, but I don’t have time to puzzle out who gave the warning. I’m getting closer to the warehouses and the robots are thick on the ground here. They don’t seem to be making an organised push for the perimeter, but their sheer numbers mean they are going to be hell to control anyway. The nearest two bots bring their weapons to bear, but are too slow and fall quickly to an arcing swipe with the shield.

“Captain, we’re going to have a situation in a moment. All the robots near me just broke and ran. They’re heading your way,” Natasha says. “Also, they’re falling fast to the Widow’s Bite. I don’t think they’re shielded from electrical surges or EMPs.”

Unshielded? We haven’t faced anything from Doctor Doom that didn’t have at least moderate surge protection since Thor took out his entire robot army with a lightning storm back in—

“Widow, I need you and Hulk to get around the robots and try to get between them and the road. Thor, I’m on my way to you. I’m going to need an electrical storm once we get them as contained as possible. Hawkeye, I need the best path to Thor’s warehouse.” 

Instead of Hawkeye’s clear, businesslike tones the voice that answers me is a little bit scratchy – a sub-par radio system perhaps – and young sounding. “Captain America, you’re going to want to hook right around the big stack of shipping containers with the yellow one on top. Then angle for the tallest crane. I can guide you from there. Good to see you again, Hawkass. You want a lift, or should I jut clear you a path?”

I glance at the top of the tallest crane and just make out a slim figure near the top. He’s using some kind of grappling kit to hook the flying robots and sling them into each other. I can see Clint climbing rapidly now that the robots are more interested in the figure up the top. Could he have been the one who warned me only moments ago? The voice didn’t really sound the same.

“Okay, Cap, if you head towards the baby thunderstorm over there you’ll find your demigod,” the voice directs once I reach the crane. “Keep the last row of shipping crates between you and the warehouses until you’re there, it’s the clearest path at the moment. Gotta say, it’s an honour to destroy second-rate robots with you, sir.”

The pile of destroyed robots surrounding Thor at the warehouse entrance is truly impressive. The ranks of robots standing or hovering in the only visible display of organisation so far are even more so, but in a horrifying way. I can hear Clint and the newcomer directing Natasha around to the other end of the row of warehouses, trying to drive the rest of the robot army towards us, but at the moment my attention is tracking a way into the warehouse.

Thor takes care of that; a mighty swing of Mjölnir clearing just enough of a path. I tumble past falling robots, shield up and out to scythe the legs out from under two that dodged the blow, and come to my feet facing thirty terrified dock workers. The warehouse is small, barely more than a lined shed, and mostly empty. It also appears to have only the one broken door that Thor has been guarding. 

“Captain, we’re forming your perimeter. The enemy seems to be ignoring all S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel at this stage.”

I give Johnson my location. “I’m about to carve a hole in the back of this warehouse and let thirty civilians out. I need covering fire in case the robots take an interest. Ma’am, this whole situation feels like either a trap or a distraction. The robots are old tech; we know Doom has better in his arsenal. They also don’t appear to have a specific target. Either Doom’s trying to get us here for some reason and he’s going to strike while we’re distracted, or he’s bored out of his brain and messing with us.”

There’s a brief pause and then Johnson replies. “Affirmative. We have your location and can provide cover. I’m relaying your suspicions to the helicarrier.”

I find a spot at the back of the shed where pressing against the insulation reveals only a flat wall; no lumps or channels that could house electrical work. Five precise strikes with the edge of the shield and I can tear the insulation away and kick the panel out.

“You’re clear, Captain.”

I grab the shoulder of the nearest worker just as two of the flying robots get past Thor.

“Go, go, go!” I yell, shoving him towards the hole. To his credit, he grabs the arm of the woman next to him, and propels her towards the exit. I don’t have time to guide them out. I shove through the workers, pushing those I can towards the exit, but my focus is on the first of the robots that made it inside; I can see the build up of energy cracking around its electricity weapon. I bring my arm back, low, and sling the shield in a perfect arc towards the bot. The trajectory is perfect, the robot spirals harmlessly back out the door and the shield ricochets into the camera lens of the other flying machine just before Mjölnir crashes into its back. 

“Is that all of them, Captain?” Johnson asks through the comm.

I look back; the warehouse is empty. I can see a flash of safety orange through the hole in the wall as the last worker runs away. “We’re clear, Agent. Avengers, get clear of the robots. Fall back to the perimeter if you can, otherwise just put as much distance between yourselves and the nearest hunk of metal. Thor, get ready to light them up once we get the clear.”

Natasha’s confirmation comes almost immediately, as well as acknowledgement that the Hulk is with her. Thor sprints away from the warehouse, static energy already crackling from Mjölnir. I sprint in the opposite direction, through the hole in the back of the warehouse and towards the line of black vans. 

“Me and the spider brat are clear. Bring the thunder, Thor.” Clint’s voice is distorted, and I hear a loud yell of delight before he closes the channel.

The thunder is deafening as lightning strike after lightning strike assaults the docks. I skid to a halt against a van and squint back towards the battle. The scent of ozone and burning is thick in the air and at least two junior agents have dropped their guns in order to block their ears. We cower against the vans, the charged atmosphere making the hair on my face prickle where it isn’t covered by the cowl. 

And then it’s over. 

“Avengers, check in.”

“Black Widow and Hulk are fine,” Natasha says.

“Hawkass is too busy being an idiot to reply,” says the young voice I’m becoming rapidly familiar with.

“Spider-brat is an asshole who needs to not web me in the face. We’re fine, Cap.” I can hear the laughter in Clint’s voice.

“Keep it off the comms, fellas. Thor?” I ask.

“I’ve got eyes on Thor,” Clint confirms. “He’s fine, must have fried his comm with his pet storm.”

“I still have movement down this end.” Natasha says. 

“Yeah, not all the bots fell to ‘act of God’.” says Clint. “Clean up time, boys and girls.”

We pick through the wreckage, finishing off the crippled machines with surgical strikes to their wiring. Most can barely move after the barrage of electricity.

The final humanoid robot I find is in the best shape despite appearing only to work from the waist up. As I approach, it lifts both arms in a gesture of surrender. The glowing eyes blink twice, and then there’s a squelch of static from its speaker.

“ _My condolences, Captain,_ ” the electronic voice says in Victor von Doom’s distinct Latverian accent. “ _Iron Man was a worthy adversary. He will be missed._ ”

The eyes darken and the robot slumps backwards, completely inert, but I launch myself at the metal corpse anyway. It only takes two hard hits with the shield to completely sever the head and I kneel there, knees pinning the dead machine to the ground, and just breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever battle scene, and it was rather difficult to write. Even now, in about its eighth incarnation, I'm not terribly happy with it. I think I stepped too far out of my comfort zone with writing in first person in the first place, and it kind of shows here. Thank you for sticking with me this far, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter when I post it tomorrow.


	7. Ninth Day

_Don’t cry, Steve. Don’t … I’m sorry. Please wake up. Please wake up!_

Your voice on the edge of awaking sounds so terribly sad. I burrow deeper in to the pillows, trying to force myself back to sleep. To find you in my dreams, kiss away your sorrow. Consciousness calls to me, relentlessly dragging me into the day. 

Nine days. It has been nine days since you died.

I ache pleasantly after the battle and the clean-up yesterday and damn if I don’t roll over expecting to see you next to me, eyes squeezed shut against the bright morning light. Only, your side of the bed is stone cold, the covers flat. You will never be there again.

You would have liked the kid who came to help us yesterday. Spider-man, he called himself, and while he seemed so young he held his own during the clean-up and didn’t stop bantering with Clint the entire time. If you’d still been here I would have offered him a place on the Avengers in a heartbeat, but when I opened my mouth it felt too much like trying to replace you and the words wouldn’t come out.

“I miss you,” I say to the empty room. 

_I miss you too._

I come properly awake with a full-body jump. I must have drifted off, just briefly, because I swear that was your voice. JARVIS’ speaker pops and hisses at me quietly as I push myself upright and scrub my hands over my face and through my hair. This isn’t funny. I’m hearing your voice when I’m not even asleep now; God for a moment yesterday after the battle when no one admitted to warning me about that bot about to shoot me in the back my first thought was that it was you. But that’s impossible. I’m just going mad. 

I tap out a quick email on my phone, fingers clumsy over the tiny virtual keys. It’s short, and I hesitate longer over the address than the message, but eventually send my request for grief counselling through to Agent Johnson rather than to Pepper. I don’t want to put more of a burden on your dearest friend.

I feel detached, clinical even, like I’m watching someone else go through my morning routine. It’s not until I’m doing my level best to destroy a punching bag in the gym, replacing yesterdays aches with fresh muscle fatigue, that I feel like I’m in my body again. My shower is too hot, but I want to keep feeling real for as long as possible.

Clint and Bruce are waiting in the kitchen when I come in to make my breakfast; the archer looks like he’s been up for at least as long as I have and his hair is still shower-damp, but Bruce looks half-asleep still. I start frying bacon and tomatoes in one pan and eggs in another. Clint wordlessly passes me another package of bacon, and then loads the toaster with a ridiculous amount of bread. Darcy wanders in, looking as half-asleep as Bruce and sporting a truly terrifying bed-head. She pats me affectionately on the back as she passes, and I don’t even register the hiss and spurt of the espresso machine warming up at first. The sound is mostly covered by the sizzle of bacon and the scrape of the spatula as I turn the eggs. Clint nudges me with a full egg carton and gives me a searching look, but I ignore it in favour of asking him for a plate for the cooked eggs.

I’m halfway through cracking more eggs into the pan when the smell hits me; the bitter dark roast scent of coffee. I freeze with egg dripping through my fingers. Who knew that scent could throw me back into memories like that? 

_Handing you coffee in your workshop at one in the morning, seeing your tired smile as you push the welding goggles up to the top of your head and take the mug._

_Your fingers wrapped tight around a mug that’s more of a bowl first thing in the morning, your eyes blinking blearily up at me. Your hands shark-quick despite your sleepiness when I walk past, skating under my tee shirt for a quick grope._

_I remember our last morning together, leaning against each other in front of the espresso machine in lazy companionship, waiting for it to deposit scalding black liquid into our respective mugs. Even half-asleep you steamed the milk for my cappuccino perfectly, and screwed up your nose at me when you made a ridiculous pun on my title. We watched the sunlight creep through the city in the early morning chill of the terrace; you leaned back against my chest and told me that you wanted this forever._

_“Are you proposing to me, Mr Stark?” I asked you._

_“No,” you said quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is that I want to wake up next to you, fall asleep next to you, do silly things like drink coffee with you at ass-o’clock in the morning while we watch the city wake up. Not that Manhattan ever really sleeps, but you know what I mean? Because everything in this world is twice as good when I’m with you. I don’t need a piece of paper confirming that or a ring on my finger. Not when I have you next to me. Not unless you want it?”_

_I closed my free hand around yours and wrapped both our arms around your chest, snugging you tight against me. “No, this is good. Waking up next to each other is good.”_

My fingers spasm, egg and shell dropping into the pan together. I stare at it long enough for the white to begin to turn opaque. Distantly, I hear Clint swear.

“Oh god, oh no, shit, fuck, fucking fuck,” Darcy babbles. “Steve, I’m so sorry. I’m the world’s biggest asshole. I didn’t even think! I’m sorry. I’ll just go. Fucking idiot.” 

I pull myself together, Darcy’s panicked voice dragging me out of recollection just as your smiling eyes begin to glaze over with death in my mind. Two deep breaths, then I can turn and offer at least a little bit of a smile. 

“It’s okay, Darce,” I tell her. “They’re good memories.”

I won’t think of the blood bubbling out of your mouth. I won’t—

She spills half her coffee putting it down and then throws herself at me in a bear hug, still babbling apologies. I give her a gentle pat on the back and smile a little more easily. “Who else wants coffee?” 

“Your eggs are going to burn,” Clint says. “I’ll make the coffee.”

I make enough breakfast to feed an army, or Thor, Bruce, and myself with a handful of normal appetites thrown in, and by the time all the food and coffee is ready and everyone’s in the kitchen I’m feeling a bit more stable again. Darcy sprinkles so much extra chocolate on top of my cappuccino that it’s practically a mocha, and gives me all of her bacon. Natasha watches our silent exchange with a little smile on her face, and after she walks past to put her plate in the dishwasher she drops a hand onto each of our shoulders for a reassuring squeeze. Darcy leans into it, the last of the tension leaking out of her expression and the rigid set of her shoulders.

* * *

After lunch I’m sprawled on one of the living room couches, a tablet propped on one knee and a notepad on the other; watching all the footage of yesterday’s fight and making notes about what we could have done better. I’m reviewing a camera that was pointed at the crane Clint was trying to climb, watching him drop meters at a time to dodge the flying robots as they mob him. I’ve reviewed most of the footage of the crane, but this camera is further away, mounted on a floodlight, and it’s giving a great overview of the battle. While I watch Clint use a grappling arrow to swing a fast moving machine through its nearby allies, the camera suddenly cuts away from him. It pans down quickly and focuses on me. Or more accurately, on the bot that nearly got the jump on me. I see myself turn and bring the shield up just in time, and then fly backwards over the robot wreckage with the force of the shot. This was when I received the mystery warning.

Do we have a hacker aiding us?

Natasha wanders in, bare feet silent in the plush carpet but the little tool basket that hangs from the crook of her elbow rattles with every step. She settles on the floor near a cushy armchair and puts her tools and bonsai down before reaching up to turn the reading light on and angle it towards her tiny tree. 

“Have you named that one yet?” I ask.

She shakes her head, lips pursed. “No, she’s being shy. She will tell me her name soon though.”

She tilts her head from side to side, considering, and draws a pair of tiny clippers from her workbasket. 

“Before you start, can you tell me what you think of this?” I ask.

She puts the clippers back in the basket and comes to her feet in a fluid movement, then pads over to see the screen of the tablet I’m offering her. We rearrange ourselves until we’re sitting side by side on the sofa.

“I’ve been looking at footage from the fight,” I explain. “At the moment, at footage of Clint struggling to climb the crane. The first two cameras I reviewed were static. This one, however…”

I back up the footage to just before the camera moves and show Natasha how it pans around to me with a quick, jerky movement and focuses almost instantly. We watch me turn, take the shot on my shield, and fly backwards. I pause the footage, noting this time how the camera continued to track me during my tumble.

“This is just before I got a warning to check my six,” I tell her. “I thought it was Clint, but he didn’t have eyes on me. Then I thought it was Spider-man, but he denied it.”

“It wasn’t on the open channel,” Tasha says. “I didn’t hear anything until you thanked Clint for the save.” 

She reaches out and taps the screen, starting the footage again. We watch the camera track my movements until I’m out of sight, then it pans up to the crane again. 

“It’s not motion activated,” she says after we’ve watched the footage three times. “If it were, it would have been following Doom’s robots to start with.” 

“Not infrared either,” I agree. “The robots were warm at their energy source and their joints. And the flying robots’ engines put out a lot of heat too.”

“Do any of the other cameras do this?” She asks. 

We speed through the footage from the other cameras, not analysing the battle anymore, just looking for camera movement. We find it, focused on each of us at some point of the battle, but most of the footage follows me.

“There,” Natasha says, tapping her nail against the screen. “Hulk warned me at the last minute and I got out of the way.”

I watch as two robots come together with a crash, Natasha flipping above them.

“I heard a pop on my radio while he was yelling, but I wrote it off as interference from the flying robots’ energy weapons,” she explains. “Obviously that can’t have been it; I didn’t have any other trouble with distortion or static.” 

“Hacker?” I ask. Somewhere behind us one of JARVIS’ speakers pops and crackles.

“Who got you the footage?” Tasha counters.

“Agent Reeve, I think,” I tell her. “You could check with Johnson, though. I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. asked permission for this though, not if we got hold of it so quickly.”

“So they hacked the servers and pulled the files. Damn, my virtual infiltration is rusty, and I’m the best we’ve got now—” she clamps her mouth shut and swallows hard. I pat her knee reassuringly. 

“So we ask Reeve to find out who was in the server before he was,” she says, then brushes my hand away and gets to her feet. “I’ll make the call.”

“I’ll keep and eye on Marcia for you,” I tell her, gesturing to the abandoned bonsai.

That gets me a twitch of a smile and a breath of laughter. “You are not naming my tree Marcia, Steve,” she scolds playfully as she saunters from the room.

The speaker pops and spurts again, louder than before. I frown over my shoulder at it. It hisses as soon as I’m looking at it. Distantly, I can hear Natasha beginning her phone call, but my entire focus is on the speaker. I can’t quite reach it, so I get to my feet and wave my hand in front of the grille rather than trying to poke it. I’m not sure what I’m trying to do, but every move I make is echoed with a noise from the speaker.

“Tasha?” I call.

She pokes her head around the doorframe, points to the phone at her ear and mouths ‘assholes’ at me, and then begins speaking into the phone again in a low, dangerous sounding voice.

The speaker I’m standing under stops hissing. I wave at it a few more times without a response, but then I hear a loud burst of static from the speaker near the elevator. I wonder what JARVIS is playing at here? The elevator doors open before I’m halfway to them, and I hear an electronic squeal from the speaker inside.

“Tasha?” I call again, but I can hear her voice getting louder from the kitchen. She’ll be busy with that call for a while at least. I figure I can bring her up to date as soon as I find out what on earth JARVIS is up to. I pat my pocket to reassure myself that I have my phone, and step into the elevator car. The doors shut smoothly behind me, and the elevator begins its steady descent, none of this clanging and jerking from, God, was it only four days ago? 

A heartbeat. A lifetime without you.

“What’re you trying to tell me, JARVIS?” I say quietly, stroking my hand down the sleek elevator panel. The speaker’s soft hissing is the only response I get. “You’ve been trying to talk to me all week, haven’t you?”

I don’t know where I expected the elevator to stop, but it wasn’t at your workshop. When the doors open and I’m confronted with the frosted glass and the clean lines of the security panel glowing in the gloom, I can’t make my legs move. I finally manage to make my body obey and stagger, stiff legged, out of the elevator.

It takes three tries to get the access code right; my fingers are stiff as sticks and I fumble the virtual keys badly twice. The door unlocks with a click like a gunshot in the silence. I freeze with my hand on the door. It’s too much. This is your domain; all your memories are in here. I have to go in, but all I really want to do is turn and run. Captain America brought to cowardice by a simple abandoned workshop.

“Please … –ter the works–p, Capt– … Rogers.” 

The soft English accent, distorted and broken up as it is, gives me enough of a jumpstart to push the door open and press forward into the dim room. Only one bank of overhead lights is on, revealing the two bots flanking a workbench. One spins on its base to regard me with its camera eye. The other is holding a thick fibre optic cable in its claw, retracting it from …  _something_  lying on top of the workbench.

The door swings shut behind me and re-locks with a loud click, sounding frighteningly final in the silent workshop. I step forward; suddenly wishing my shield was on my arm rather than in the armoury upstairs. There’s something eerie about the silent, dimly lit room and the watchful bots. Normally DUM-E and U trundle over to greet me at the door, begging for attention like overly large puppies. Now, though, they haven’t moved from their positions either side of the workbench. The closest bot turns back to whatever it is that’s lying on the bench, bending its claw to it, and then the thing twitches.

Instincts kicking in, I lunge to the side and snatch up the first available weapon I can find. The fourteen-inch pipe wrench – alloy not steel – feels uncomfortably light in my hand but my other options are a cold soldering iron and a Phillips head screwdriver, neither particularly intimidating.

“Captain Rogers, I assure you that’s not necessary,” JARVIS says, his tone as bland and polite as always. 

“What’s going on here, JARVIS?” I ask.

He doesn’t have a chance to respond before the thing on the bench moves again, pushing upright in a very human movement.

At first I think it’s one of your old Iron Man suits, but the proportions are all wrong. It’s smaller, sleeker and narrower through the shoulders and waist, and far more flexible looking. The glowing blue eyes set in an almost featureless face are achingly familiar, though, as is the glowing circle of light set into the silver chest.

I hold the pipe wrench loosely at waist level, prepared to bring it up to strike or block in an instant, not that it will be much protection from a repulsor blast. The silver figure on the bench rotates its head in a parody of human stretching, then rolls its shoulders and brings one hand up. The fingers are short and slender, and I watch them wiggle with dexterity none of your suits had. I flinch when the palm is turned a little more towards me, but it is silver and featureless, no glowing RT node embedded in the hand.

The android seems oblivious to me still, absorbed in apparently checking the range of movement in every finger and arm joint, then flexing its torso back and forth, keeping its face pointed at the bot on the far side of the bench. Left-handed, I fumble my phone out of my pocket and bring it up to face-level so that I can navigate it without taking my eyes off the silver figure. I thumb it onto silent and I’m about to send an alert out to all the Avengers when a three-pronged claw closes over my hand. U tears the phone out of my hand with an indignant electronic squeal, and flings it away from me across the floor.

I lunge forward and away from the disgruntled bot, falling into a defensive stance as the android turns with a faint whir of servos, bringing its terrible blue gaze to face me. 

“Steve?”

Oh God, oh God, it’s using your voice. I fumble the pipe wrench in shock, but recover myself and close the distance until I’m only two steps from the workbench. The android doesn’t appear armed in any way, and while it’s still sitting on the bench it is at least at a slight disadvantage.

“JARVIS, what the hell is going on here?” I demand.

“Steve, it’s me. It’s Tony,” the android responds. I flinch as it lifts its hands, but the stance is placating rather than defensive or aggressive.

“Tony’s been dead for nine days,” I say flatly. “I repeat, what the hell is going on here?”

In my peripheral vision I can see the two bots retreating to the other end of the workshop, but I can’t keep an eye on them and watch the silver android.

“Nine days?” It says, using your voice to sound troubled. “JARVIS, has it really been nine days? I’m so sorry, Steve. I tried to get to you sooner, I swear—”

“What are you?” I ask.

“It’s me, Steve. It’s Tony.” The android begins shuffling closer to the edge of the workbench, but freezes as soon as I raise the pipe wrench threateningly. 

“Lying to a grieving man is incredibly poor taste,” I spit. 

The android rocks back as if I had actually hit it, bracing itself on its hands. “I’m so, so sorry, Steve. It really is me. I’ve been trying to reach you since I … since the battle. I’ve been taking over cameras and speakers and even the elevator once! It’s just been so hard, I had to wait until JARVIS built me a proper interface because I kept exhausting myself and blacking out. It’s me. I’m Tony. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been so cold and alone in there.” 

I don’t really lower my guard, but I do lower the pipe wrench and nod at the android to show that I’m at least going to listen. It hurts like a physical thing to hear your voice so sad, so desperate. 

“I’ll prove it, ask me anything that no one else would know. Um, shit, your favourite sweet is dark chocolate, even though I tease you that it’s apple pie. You have nightmares about Bucky falling more often than you have any about the ice. You once called Natasha a ‘classy dame’ and then flinched like you expected her to hit you—”

“Anyone could know these things.”

The android’s voice gets desperate. “You have a freckle on the inside of your left ankle and you always laugh when I kiss it, even only a little bit. You wake me up from my nightmares by holding me as tight as you can and talking to me until I stop gasping. You recounted almost the entire plot of Charlotte’s Web to me once when it took me longer than usual to come out of it and you ran out of things to say—”

I let out a choked sound against my will. I never told anyone that, never even mentioned it to you again afterwards.

“And the morning before that battle I completely ruined our little romantic moment on the terrace by putting my foot in my mouth and messing up my not-proposal to you.”

That one hits like a punch to the stomach. The pipe wrench slips in my fingers, nearly falling before I recall myself and tighten my grip. These things, JARVIS may have recorded some of them, but not all. And what it said before, about taking control of the speakers and the elevator, everything starts to fall into place. The missing shipments of computer parts and alloys, your voice in my ears when I wake up, not remembered but _heard_. JARVIS’ absence from the tower. The mystery warning during the battle yesterday, too, could only have come from you.

“How?” I whisper.

The android – _you_ – sits forward again slowly, hesitantly, like I’m going to attack at any moment. “I knew I couldn’t survive those wounds. I couldn’t feel anything below my ribs, couldn’t breathe. I didn’t really think it would work, Steve, or I swear I would have tried to tell you. I transferred myself into the suit at the last minute, and then JARVIS transferred me here. I didn’t wake up for ages, and even then everything was pain and darkness until JARVIS built me an interface.” 

“Interface?” I ask. 

“I built a software and hardware representation of the structure of Sir’s brain based on scans taken only days before the incident,” JARVIS explains, his voice typically calm and quiet.

“And the body?”

“Based on the Iron Man armour, but scaled to my size and with improved flexibility,” you tell me. “JARVIS fabricated and the bots assembled.”

I swap the wrench to my left hand and take a step closer to the workbench, reaching out to touch the silver ankle nearest me. The joint is crude compared to flesh and bone, lacking the full flexibility to rotate, but miles ahead of anything I’ve seen before. The shape of the leg echoes your own, almost exactly the same size as yours was. I take another step forward and run my fingers over the silver torso, marvelling at the fine overlapping plates that give it flexibility. It freezes, no, _you_  freeze, and I can feel the faintest hum of energy under my fingertips.

“We held your funeral,” I whisper, dazed. “You’re dead, were dead, for nine days, Tony.”

You reach your hand out so slowly, so tentatively, as though you fear I’ll flee any sudden movement, until you can touch my shoulder. There’s no pressure behind the touch, your hand barely grazing my skin. We both jump when the wrench finally slips from my grip, shattering the quiet. I reach up and take your hand in mine. My other hand skates further up your torso up your neck, and to the almost featureless face. There’s the barest hint of nose and cheekbones in the contours of the metal mask, and the jawline is more angular than the Iron Man mask, more like your real jaw. The eyes are familiar from the Iron Man mask too, nothing like your enormous brown eyes with their long eyelashes. The metal is cool, unyielding, but if this is the only way I can have you now, I’m going to cling with both hands and never let you go again.

“Tony,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper back. “It must have been awful. I’ve hurt you so much, Steve. It’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

With my eyes closed I can pretend it’s you, pretend these are gauntlets and a helmet and your smiling, animated, mobile face is waiting for me behind the metal. I open my eyes, lean forward and press my forehead to yours.

“Shhh,” I admonish. “You’re back, and that’s the most important thing. Anything else, if we can’t fix it then it doesn’t matter.”

You make a noise like a hitching sob. I don’t care if you don’t have lungs, don’t have tear ducts. I’ve heard that noise a thousand times while curled around you at night, while waking you from your nightmares. I press a gentle kiss to your face, and for a heartbeat it doesn’t matter that I’m kissing cool metal, not warm skin.

“And you didn’t ruin the moment on the terrace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here concludes the longest complete work I've ever written. I'd like to thank everyone who has read, kudos-ed and commented; it's really made my day each time to receive those AO3 emails telling me about it.


End file.
